Canary in the Coal Mine (On Hiatus)
by Timeless88
Summary: She-E34139, the experiment, a filthy mutant-never would have guessed that she would find solace in the dysfunctional family of ragtag heroes. They, in turn, never would have thought to have her-a girl stripped of her human dignity and left to rot-join their ranks. But when tragedy strikes and a new threat arises to test these new-found bonds, they must do what they do best: avenge.


**Many thanks to the amazimg Hope's Survival. Without her help in beta-ing this story, _Canary in the Coal Mine_** **would most certainly be nothing but a dream.**

**Disclaimer: All rights to the Avengers belong to Marvel; I only own my OC.**

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A minuscule scratch on the scarred wall marks another day of my captivity.

It's only a rough estimate-three weeks shy of four years, at least.

Four years since I've seen the expanse of aqua sky, felt the amiable radiance of the sun, heard the vague whisper of the breeze, tasted the crisp ante meridian air, scented the sharp resin of the trees.

Four years spent in this deathly room.

I clutch the gleaming dog-tags in my nimble fingers, savoring the coolness of the metal against my milky, lacerated skin. The tags twirl in their own form of a dance, and I glance only briefly at the lengthy code that serves as a way of identification. My unique number-E34139-is engraved deep into the metal, gleaming faintly in the lack of light.

Sighing, I avert my gaze away from the tags, allowing them to slip from my fingers and thump lightly against my protruding clavicle. I shift slightly on the uneven burlap cot, wincing as the rough material brushes uncomfortably against open wounds on my bare skin. The minuscule movement causes dismal amber feathers to whisk into my periphery, and I experimentally angle a wing into my range of touch. I stroke a fleecy feather, savoring the tickle of the fringed edges against my spidery fingers.

The wings are supposedly products of an experiment conducted several weeks ago, as I'm told. I'm still adjusting to the extra limbs, nearing sixteen feet from tip to tip. On rare occasions, I test their maneuverability, but more often than not I find them slipping from my mind; I only briefly pause to regard them when I feel my skin tingle at the light kiss of the feathers.

There are other attributes I've gained, too.

A majority of them have been derived directly from the endless experiments I've undergone, and the countless syringes that have been driven into my veins. A few have been dramatic changes and others only infinitesimal mutations serving no purpose. The procedures themselves vary; I never know what fate lies beyond the doors, waiting menacingly. Some are painless injections, and others are benumbing procedures.

But most experiments have been excruciatingly painful.

I can still vividly remember the agony. Often I spend my nights writhing in pain on that poor excuse for a cot as I try vainly to escape the oppressing nightmares and bone-chilling experiences. Every night, I feel the searing liquid burn a path to my heart, and I grit my teeth to suppress the screams. The excruciating agony sparks as the liquid flows into my bloodstream. It sluggishly crawls through my veins, activating every nerve, triggering the pain that never ceases to haunt me.

And the bodies.

The faceless bodies cloud my vision. Their ghastly arms loom before me like the gnarled branches of a tree, and I narrowly dodge their attempts to rope me into their awaiting fate. Sometimes I experience brief flashes of my past life before I was ever severed from my family and dumped into this sterile, calculating environment. But the scenes that attempt to play before my eyes only skip unevenly like broken records, and their images are hazily unfocused like old, outdated photographs. They tell me that the slight memory loss is a side effect, a negative reaction to the experiments. But I only turn from their words dubiously.

I'm never sure if I believe them or not.

But I'm used to it all now. Used to the imponderable agony. Used to the extravagant lies they feed me. Used to the nightmares that plague me.

It's all just a tedious, monotonous routine that never wavers.

I'm pulled from my reverie when stoic marching enters my range of hearing. The heavy footfalls etch their way into my brain, and it takes me a few moments to process the ominous pattern of labored marching. But when I do, I involuntarily wince. They're guards, most likely deployed to haul me away to another experiment. I tense, uneasily tugging at the itchy fabric loosely draped across my body, hanging on my petite frame like a dingy hospital gown. The oppressing steps fall into cadence with my beating heart, and they remain in sync, even when the volume of the marching increases as they draw nearer. My eyes remained fixed on the door, with its many locks and hinges, as I attempt to predict the exact moment the guards will burst through into my prison-like abode.

When they do, a rush of refreshing, cool air hits me like a tidal wave, reminding me of how hot and stuffy it is in this room. The guards seem to realize it too, because they each hastily lock the handcuffs around my wrists and jerk me to my feet, seemingly eager to escape the humid environment. I stumble slightly, but neither angle their stoic faces my way; they don't care and they never have. They drag my limp form toward the door, and the frigid metal of their armory pressing against my skin makes me flinch. Behind me, my wing tips trail along the ground like golden snakes on a winding path, and I manage to snap them closer to my body before the door can slam shut on them.

Free from my place of confinement, I allow my gaze to travel around the area, and I pick out the similarities between the hall I see now and the hall I see in my memories. The corridor is just as sterile and lifeless. The dismal grey walls are just as menacing. The oppressing silence is just as loud. The bleak journey to the operation room is just as unnerving.

We continue on our way, winding around turns and through halls. When we pass a window, one guard inclines his head toward me with a knowing smirk and steps back, allotting me a view of the remote, rural landscape beyond. I let my fingers traces the handcuffs, imagining that the cold metal is replaced by soft, vivid spring flowers. But I'm soon snapped from my brief reverie when the guards shove me forward again.

I can tell that we're nearing the operation room long before we slow our pace. The hectic sounds emanating from there are as prominent as a blinking red beacon, and they drown out all other noises until they fade away, nothing more than a wilting flower. For a brief moment I wonder if I'm destined to share the same fate, to wither away to nothingness. However, my suspicions are discarded as soon as we step foot into the room.

Countless scientists mill about, all donning lab coats and faces warped into emotionless masks. The guards relinquish their hold on me and peel away from my sides, but they are soon replaced by hasty scientists. I'm ushered toward an operation table that sits in a glass case in the center of the room, and my handcuffs are swapped for restraints that aggravate my bruised wrists. I shift uncomfortably on the cold metal table, with my wings splayed out on either side of me, brushing against the sterile tile of the floor. I think one scientist almost trips over them, so I pull them as close to the rest of my body as possible.

The minutes tick by, and I'm left alone on the unforgiving operation table. For lack of anything else to do, I strain my ears, attempting to hear beyond the glass that surrounds me. I make out a few words, but they're muffled and incoherent. Habitually gnawing on my lower lip, I test my limits, straining my ears even further. My efforts prove fruitful when I can distinguish a couple of voices.

"But it might not work-"

"-sounds like you haven't even tried-"

"-it may turn up recessive traits -"

"-inject the DNA and be done-"

"-whereas the dominant genes might-"

"-I didn't come all this way for doubts-"

"-I'm unsure of what it might do-"

"-doctor, do I look like I give a damn-"

"-we should wait; it's too risky-"

"-I don't see how it could possibly-"

"-because, sir, she's our only success-"

"-want to lose your job?"

A beat of silence.

"Fine."

"Fine."

Then the scuffling begins again. The conversation ignites mixed emotions in me, but I have no time to dwell on them. I hear someone entering the glass case, and I try to angle my gaze their way, but they are beyond my periphery. Slightly unnerved, I lay my head back on the table, and quickly shut my eyes when a blinding white light bears down on me.

"So, E34139."

I wince at the gravelly voice, which I recognize from the conversation, and dare to glance at the speaker. He's rather short and plump, with dark graying hair and a piercing gaze. A wicked grin is spread across his face. He holds up a syringe and taps it, disturbing the liquid within and causing it to thrash inside the glass.

"This should be relatively painless."

The dangerous vibe he gives off is enough for me to instantly disagree with his words. He trails gnarled fingers along my pale arm, still with that malicious, sick grin.

"Shark DNA, I've heard," he comments. Experimentally, he prods my skin with the syringe, and nods his approval. "Grants immunity to most diseases, with the side effect of toughened skin."

He locks his dismal gaze with my amber eyes, and neither one of us turns away.

"All other test subjects have either died or turned rabid. So why, E34139, did you survive and still keep your sanity?"

He doesn't blink, and neither do I.

"Blood type? DNA? The simple will to survive?"

Finally, he averts his gaze to my wings, which are lying limply in a feathered heap, flanking the table. He runs a hand along my wing arm, and I have to force myself not to flinch as he ruffles the amber feathers.

"Impressive," he hisses, narrowing his eyes at the intricate patterns that so closely resembled an owl's. "You've been a great help to our research, E34139."

There's that sickly grin again.

"Your father would be impressed."

At his words, I feel like a knife has been driven through my heart. I can't recall much about my father, and the only memories I have are fuzzy and unclear, just like everything else from my life before this hell. Anything about my father that I manage to retain for more than a few moments causes warmth to flare in my chest. Consequently, my blood boils to think that the scientist would speak of him in such a contemptuous tone.

"He was a valuable asset. It's a shame he died."

He's driving that knife deeper and deeper.

"Wouldn't he have been proud?"

He knows he's hit a nerve, and he's still driving the knife as far as it can go. The wicked cackle that follows his speech causes the word _homicide_ to spring into my mind.

"But," he continues, "he'd be proud that his daughter would be the major breakthrough in our research."

I cast my iciest glare his way, telling him that the turf he's treading on is dangerous territory, that the knife has already pierced me through and through, that my blood has almost reached boiling point. But he isn't heeding my silent warning.

"Wouldn't he?"

So I snap.

With an inhuman hiss, I flare a wing, effectively shoving him back and into the transparent walls of the case. There's an ominous crack, but the glass remains intact. I struggle against the restraints, but they don't budge, so I give up as quickly as I began. Lying limply, I screw my eyes shut against the blinding light, my chest heaving with the effort of my recent actions, my body aching after my exertion.

The man struggles to haul his large frame to his feet, glaring at me viciously. He brandishes his undamaged syringe and stalks forward, his death stare never wavering. He's about to drive it into my flesh like he drove that knife of words through my heart, and I brace myself for the agony that's guaranteed to follow.

But then there's the unmistakable thunder of an explosion, and flames begin to rip through the room.

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**A/N: Sooo...first chapter:) I hope you enjoyed it! Any reviews, follows, favorites, constructive criticism, etc. are greatly appreciated! I will try to update regularly, but it really depends on whether life decides to be gracious or not. Also, a forewarning-this fic may contain Steve/OC in later chapters, although it hasn't been decided yet. Even if it does, it will remain mostly a teamfic with only bits of Steve/OC romance, along with some Pepperony and Clintasha (because it's hard _not_ to). Romance won't come in until later chapters though, so the Steve/OC romance may be subject to change. Anyway, thanks for reading! **

**-Timeless88**


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